


The Waiting Ones

by Devils6Details



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Drama, F/M, Gen, General, Kind of flirting?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:43:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3713656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devils6Details/pseuds/Devils6Details
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All you needed was a job. What you weren't expecting was an odd security guard and the prospect of a horde of animatronics out to kill you if you accepted said job. [AU - ish]. One-shot with some language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Waiting Ones

It starts as a very normal morning in your very normal house. Yellow summer sunshine slanting through the windows. Cheery birds chirping in the trees. Very, very normal. And, to an extent, boring. Your life is also very boring.  
 

High school graduation came and went years ago, and going to college never appealed to you. Right now, you are pretty much goalless, aimless. . . and simply struggling to make ends meet. Renting this tiny house on the edge of isolated nowhere and working for a small security company that may be going out of business soon. So, lately, you've been trying to find yourself another job.  
 

It's been incredibly slow. And. . . vastly unproductive. You've been checking the internet and the local paper for almost two weeks, and either no one is currently hiring, or no one will return any of your calls or e-mails. So, if you don't find a way to cover your rent payments by the end of the month, you're going to be out of a job as well as a place to live. Awesome, right? Yeah, you're trying not to think about it any more than you have to.  
 

Dragging your feet through the house, you already know that today is going to be exactly the same as yesterday. But you still go to the front door and grab the newspaper on the steps, anyways, if only for something to do with all of your horrible free time.  
 

You collapse down at the lopsided kitchen table and open up the print, gaze dull and unfocused as it wanders through the sections. Nothing, a sports team won, nothing, nothing, stocks. . . yep, figures. Nothing at all. You heave a disappointed sigh and move to get up when an innocuous advertisement across from the obituaries snags your attention.  
 

Giant letters and exclamation points are letting you know that the local pizza business has recently added an entertainment wing onto their very popular restaurant. Well. . . good for them.

Now, something like that would usually never catch your eye. But since the addition means an entire new floor for their rather. . . gaudy establishment, the manager is looking for another security guard to share the night shifts with his employees. And that. . . that is probably the best news that you have heard in over two months. You don't even finish reading the article before you reach for the phone, the biggest grin stretching across your face.  
 

It sounds almost too good to be true. . .  
 

About thirty minutes later, you find yourself nervously smoothing down the front of your pressed outfit before you climb out of your car. Amazingly enough, the manager of the restaurant had been available and offered you an interview for the position right on the spot. In fact, he sounded almost desperate with relief when you hung up.  
 

You have no idea if that bodes well for you. . . or not, but you try to think positively as you put on your most charming smile and walk into Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria.  
 

Mr. Black, according to the shiny tag fastened to his collar, meets you near the empty lobby with an oddly strained smile. His mustache quivers as he extends his hand, and you school your features into something polite and friendly when you shake his hand.  
 

It might be too early to tell. . . but there is something a little strange about this scene. Your neck prickles uncomfortably as dry, cold fingers finally let go of your own. Could it be the music box tunes playing softly over the speaker system? Or the distinct absence of people in what is the most popular spot for children in town? It might only be ten o'clock, but don't they have a breakfast buffet? Well, it _is_ a school day. . .  
 

"Miss [Name]?" Mr. Black says, and there is that surge of relief again in the depths of his pinched expression.  
 

Weird.  
 

"Yes, yes it is." You beam. "It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Black."  
 

"Oh, yes, yes. . ." He sounds distracted, and doesn't meet your eyes. "Now, if you'd come this way. I'd like to introduce you to someone." He gestures towards the bolted door behind the lobby counter, hurrying you along with a hand hovering just above the small of your back -as if he can't get this over with fast enough.  
 

"Sure. . ?" You eye the heavy bits of metal on the door warily. Um, shouldn't one of those padlocks be more than adequate to deter possible thieves? Or maybe two? But. . . five? Really?  
 

Mr. Black follows your line of sight and clears his throat. "What, those? Oh, those are nothing to worry about, Miss." He fumbles through his pockets for a moment, then produces a ring with at least nine of ten different keys on it. "Simple precautions, nothing more." He waves vague, anxious fingers that match his wavering chuckle.  
 

"Besides, my other guard prefers things done with prime numbers. . ."

You frown, but smartly keeps your mouth shut as the man attempts to open the locks. . . and it literally takes him seven minutes to find the right keys to do so. You check your watch and count. Honestly, what could a place like this even have to hide behind a door with five padlocks? Well, you try to ignore the creeping, crawling sensation of doubt lingering in the pit of your stomach as you trail Mr. Black into the gloom.

Which the long, winding hallway is nothing but: gloomy. It's almost a slap in the face compared to the bright, inviting atmosphere of the restaurant. Back here. . . the lights are dull and cold, illuminating greyish clouds of dust drifting down from the ceiling and every single crack in the floral print peeling from the walls.

Old flyers and spare mechanical parts litter the sides of the threadbare carpet, and you have to carefully watch your feet if you want to keep them attached to your legs as you go. It's just. . . very unsettling.

Mr. Black leads the way through the haze of must and cobwebs, trying to reassure you, or maybe the both of you, as you walk.

"I know it looks a little, well. . . all over the place." He says, and his hands are fluttering nervously again. "But we're still finishing up the remodeling and the main restaurant took precedence. It should only take a week or so for the crew to clean up back here, too . ."

You thin your lips and try desperately hard not to start sneezing. You squint watering eyes and are barely able to keep up with the one-sided conversation as Mr. Black points out the locations of storage rooms and supply closets. One of them is filled entirely with broken animatronic dolls. Bears and foxes and rabbits and chickens. . .

Missing heads or damaged limbs, frothing split wires or burnt metal cogs from various, gaping seams. Mr. Black immediately shuts that door and doesn't say a word about them, though the sudden lack of color in his already pale complexion is clue enough.

You aren't exactly the biggest fan of the dolls, either. Even the ones in working condition scattered through the restaurant are fairly disturbing. Otherwise, it really isn't too bad here. Sure -it might be a little dark, a little dirty, and you still haven't asked any questions about what other things this position might entail. . . But stumbling through the shadows on patrol routes every hour in between watching security monitors and doing nothing sounds pretty okay to you.

Eventually, Mr. Black leads you to another bolted door -this one bright, bright red, with the word SECURITY emblazoned across the top. It was slightly difficult to keep your bearings amidst the maze of corridors and severed metal parts, but you think that you did well enough while matching the ever increasing pace of Mr. Black.

"I'm sorry that I have to leave, but you'll be in very capable hands. . ."

You blink. "Excuse me?" No, you couldn't have heard that right.

Mr. Black stares back, his anxious smile teetering off to one side of his mouth. "Pardon, didn't I mention this earlier?" He manages a thin choke of laughter.

"No." You deadpan. "You didn't." You may not have been listening to everything that the was man rattling off earlier, but you sure as hell wouldn't have missed something as important as being left here alone.

"Again, I apologize, but I only meet with our potential hires." Mr. Black explains, his mustache twitching with sudden vigor. "My security guard is the one who conducts the actual interviews. After all, the two of you will be working together every shift, and you won't be seeing very much of me."

Well. . . he does have a point. You frown, curling your hands into your pockets as Mr. Black knocks on the heavy red door. Granted, you won't be alone, but this still doesn't sit quite right with you. Your neck is crawling uncomfortably again when the door finally swings open, and then. . . your mouth drops a little in surprise at the person on the other side.  
 

It's a man, maybe a handful of years older than yourself. Tall, about your height, and thin, but with rather sturdy shoulders. Very dark, very brown eyes look you over carefully -heavy, bloodshot eyes circled with the reddish bruises of chronic insomnia- and shaved hair of some indeterminate color is hidden underneath his security hat. His face is drawn and pale, and yet. . . oddly, not unattractive. Not to you, anyways.

"I bid you farewell, Miss [Name] -and good luck!" Mr. Black says, and that fleeting current of relief flashes through his expression once last time before he disappears.

You stare after him for at least thirty seconds, your mild bemusement quickly catapulting into a severe case of incredulity as the silence descends. And then, you look back at the second man, who is now leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his wrinkled uniform shirt. He is, in fact, still watching you with those inscrutable eyes.

Yep, not awkward. Not awkward at all.

"Um. . . hi." You clear your throat and offer out your hand, your nice manners instinctively kicking in. "I'm [Name]."

He glances at your hand, then back at you. His long fingers wrap firmly around yours and squeeze gently before letting go again. "Do yah scare easy, Miss [Name]?" He asks. His voice is impassive, a little raspy around the edges.

"Uh. . ." You squint at him, furrowing your brows. Your skin is still prickling with a peculiar warmth from where his palm fit against yours. "No. No, I don't believe so." You pause and shake your head, bewildered. "Would it matter if I did? Is that actually relevant?"

His thin lips stretch more to the left side of his face than to the right in a ruthless, glittering smile. "Believe me, it's extremely relevant, doll." He says, motioning you inside the room. "Come on. Might as well get this over with before you suddenly go and change your mind."

"What?" You say. "Wait a minute, how many people have you actually interviewed for this position?"

"Hmm. About twelve."

". . .right. Sure. And all twelve of them changed their minds?" You find that a little hard to believe. "Just like that?"

He shoots you raised eyebrows over his shoulder, then makes a deliberate show of locking the metal door behind the two of you. "No, I made them. But that also makes you lucky number thirteen. . . So, here's to hoping, I guess." He shrugs, and he doesn't sound very hopeful at all.

You give him an odd look. "I don't understand. Why would you do that? You would think that you would want someone to help you. . ."

"No, _you_ don't understand." He interrupts, spinning on his heels to stare at you straight. His dark eyes reminds you of gathering storm clouds as he digs his fingers into his waist.

"I'm going to be perfectly frank with you, okay?" He huffs. "I need a very, very special person to share this position with me. I'm not going to simply trust any random stranger to watch my back in this place. So, I have to make sure that I'm incredibly thorough with the screening process."

"Screening process?" You can't help a grin. "You make it sound like the restaurant is dangerous or something."

And you honestly want to laugh at that, because this must be a joke. It has to be a joke. Sure, it's kind of a weird one. . . But this guy seems to be kind of weird, himself. Attractive. . . but weird.

Moments pass. He doesn't quite glare at you, but the resulting expression on his face is slate blank and bitterly cold. All at once, the laughter curls up at the back of your throat and dies. You force yourself to swallow, locking your arms around your midsection with a sudden spike of anxiety.

He. . . he doesn't really look like the joking type.

"If what I'm about to tell yah doesn't change your mind about working here." He deadpans. "I'm sure that _this_ will." He reaches for something on the desk beside the both of you and shoves it into your chest before he turns around.  
 

You look down at the thin packet of paper in your hand, then back towards him. He's taken up a spot in front of the wall with six black and white monitors set into the woodwork. His shoulders are one tense line of rigid muscle, straight to the point of painful.  
 

You swallow again and take a deep breath. Whatever he gave you isn't an application. In fact. . . your eyes grow huge, eyebrows shooting up into your hairline as you skim the front page. "It can't be. . . is this a non-disclosure form?" You gawk.  
 

"Sure is." He replies blandly. "I can't tell yah anything more about the job unless you sign it."

"Oh. . . kay. Wow." You shake your head. "You guys really don't mess around, do you? I had no idea. . ." Your words float off into nothing when you begin to read the fine print.

It doesn't take long, maybe five minutes or so for you to finish the entire four pages. Slowly, you place the form back on his desk, right next to a broken name tag that reads _Mike Schmidt_. Your mouth feels dry and heavy, tongue even heavier as you clumsily try to lick your lips.

"If it helps. . ." Schmidt turns to you with another blank smile, though his face is weary, resigned. "Black will give you a raise at the end of two weeks, and then a monthly bonus check."

"Yeah." You pause, running a palm over your hair. "It helps a little, but. . . shit." You finally mutter. You lean forward to rest tight, clenching hands on the back of his rolling chair.

Apparently, this _was_ too good to be true. If there was going to be a catch, you figured that it would have something to do with. . . benefits or lousy health insurance plans or whatever. Definitely not something that requires a four page waiver, clearing the pizza place of all blame if you happen to break you leg. . . or lose your head, while on the job.

"How many people signed?" You frown. "Of the twelve?"

"Just two." Schmidt joins you near his desk, leaning against the opposite side and flicking a pen much too casually between his fingers.

Oh, that's. . . more than you figured, anyways. You can't imagine how many people are eager to test the decapitation part of the waiver, even for bonuses. So, what does that make you? You haven't walked out yet, have you?

You stare down at the form, your [color] eyes hard. "What happened after that?" You make yourself ask. "After they signed? Are they -?" You can't even say it, it sounds too fucking ridiculous.

"Dead?" Faint, black amusement glimmers behind his eyes. "No, you can relax. Both of them attempted the training with me. One lasted a single night, and the other lasted two. Neither of them have been in touch with this place since."

You nod, sighing quietly through your nose. God -your stomach is this taut, coiled mess of dread and denial and. . . morbid curiosity, which honestly mortifies you. But. . . you don't have to stay. Schmidt is making that clear enough for you. You can just sign the form, listen to what he has to say, maybe attempt the training. . . Or, if it's too strange or too. . . whatever, you can simply walk away.

No harm done, right?

Before you can actually stop and think about all of the reasons why this is no doubt the _worst_ idea that you have ever had. . . you snatch the pen from his fingers and sign your name on the last page of the packet.

 

Schmidt watches you with little expression, but there might be the slightest trace of warmth in his detached stare when you look up again, jaw firmly set as you give the form back.  
  
"Okay." You grimace. "Do your worst."  
  
Yeah, you should probably be worried about that glittering smile making a second. . . though not quite unsettling, reappearance on his face. But you aren't. In fact, when he dramatically motions for you to take a seat in his chair, the only thing that you feel is a sick jolt of anticipation lancing through your gut.  
  
"Sweet." Schmidt says, and he sounds a little thrilled. "You're different from the others -I knew it as soon as I saw yah." He pushes away from his desk and you let your cautious eyes follow him to the far wall, where. . . huh. What appears to be a set of drawn blue prints are stretched across the wood.

Did he draw them? Why? Why are there lines zig-zagged through some of the rooms? Why are the lines different colors? What do the colors mean? Your mind is buzzing with so many questions. . .

"Yep, I've got a good feeling about yah, doll. . ." He continues, though his attention is still fixed on those peculiar blue prints. "I'm Mike, by the way. Mike Schmidt. You might want to know that. Anyways. . . hmm. Where to begin?" He taps his index finger against his bottom lip, then unpins a file folder that was swinging precariously from the bulletin board next to the plans.

"Guess you should start by looking through this." He tells you, and tosses the file onto his desk.

You make a funny face, but still flip open the cover. "Which would be -? What? Are they instructions on how to work the monitors?"

Schmidt snorts. "Working the monitors is the easy part, doll. It's what you have to watch on the screens that should have you concerned." He nods at the file. "Go on. Check those out, and then ask me any questions that you want to afterwards."

Well, what he has in the folder are numerous written pages clipped into five groups, and each group happens to have one of the same color paper clips that match the lines drawn on the blue prints. You notice these similarities right away, but as you bend over the papers, your shrewd eyes narrowing. . . things get very weird, very quickly.

Each bundle of pages also corresponds to one of the popular animatronics that move about on the main stage of the restaurant: Chica the Chicken, Bonnie the Bunny, Foxy the Pirate Fox, and Freddy the Bear, of course -as well as another bear called Golden Freddy, which you aren't familiar with.

Except, the photographs that were taken of the dolls and then clipped to their respective group are clearly old -and the dolls in the shots are even older. Ten years, at least, from around the time when the restaurant first opened. Burnt models. Broken models. Mangled parts and unhinged jaws and gaping spaces where plastic eyes or metal teeth should be.

Schmidt has taken time and obviously a lot of effort to compile. . . well, some pretty bizarre things about these older dolls -as in, they have a free roam mode that is activated at night. They wander around. They -essentially- come to life. According to what Schmidt has written down, anyways, and you can barely digest it, let alone believe it. He has gathered information on every animatronic in perfect, succinct lists and columns.

Like what kinds of sounds to expect to hear when one is drawing close.  
Like the types of routes they take through the restaurants.  
Like which cameras they appear on the most frequently.

Hence the strange colors on the blue prints. He tracks their movements on the maps to try and keep himself safe during his rounds. Because, evidently, they don't know how to tell other animatronics from humans, and will attempt to stuff you in one of the spare suits hanging around back here.

You gulp, rub the bridge of your nose, and swallow again before you close the file folder. Your palms are clammy in your lap, and you find that a sharpness in the back of your throat is practically begging you to try and laugh this off again. Because it makes no _sense_ and how the hell is it _possible_ and _why_ -?

God, he wants you to ask questions? You don't even know where the fuck to start!

"So. . ." Your eyebrows scrunch together as you meet those dark, endless eyes.

Schmidt looks expectant, a hint of his ruthless smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "Don't worry. I have proof, you know. Neither of the others believed me just from reading the file, no matter how convincing it is."

"Please, by all means." You gesture for him to continue, knowing that the things you are simmering to say will keep beneath your tongue. Man, this is just. . . it's so. . .

Well, you know why the previous two who signed the form didn't last long. How badly were they scared? Did Schmidt really drive them away? What was that he said earlier, about not trusting just anyone to watch his back in this place? Has he really had to worry about. . . being harmed by these things?

You shift uneasily in the chair, watching as he goes over to the standing metal cabinet by the wall monitors. He pops open the padlocks -three of them, more prime numbers -and slides the doors apart with practiced ease.

"I don't know if you remember, 'cause it was a while ago. . ." He begins slowly, running his thin fingers over the spines of dozens of labeled tapes. "But there was a story on the news about this real psycho who abducted five little kids right out from under the noses of their parents in here, wearing a costume that looked just like Freddy Fazbear. Killed them all, probably. Not that the police found their bodies or anything." He pauses, finds the tape that he wants, and pulls out one dated two weeks ago.

"Oh, hang on." You frowns as you lean forward, over the desk, your hands moving animatedly as something clicks in the back of your mind. "I do remember that, actually. It created so much bad press for this place that it had to shut down, didn't it?"

Schmidt snorts. "Bad press wasn't the half of it, doll. But, yeah. Black had to close up while the investigation was going on, because no one wanted to bring their children in here. Parents kept complaining about some of the animatronics, too. Something about weird smells and dripping fluids. . ." He shakes his head. "So, Black pulled all of those models that were scaring people and had a bunch of new ones installed. He tried to have the older dolls destroyed, of course, but. . . ah." Schmidt sticks the tape into the whirring player and presses some buttons to clear one of the screens.

"But. . . he couldn't find them after, right?" You guess. You stand and join him at the far wall, arms wrapped protectively around your stomach as you leans closer -to him, and to the black and white image of what you believe is one of the corridors behind the new entertainment wing.

"Black must have had the place searched, but the old models were gone. Now. . . what? Are they out for revenge or something for being taken off the stage?" You try not to scoff, but it just sounds really, really stupid. "Are they upset over the addition? Do they take it out on anyone they can find? Is that why this place needs a night guard: to keep them from escaping into the general public -?"

Schmidt lays a hand on your shoulder and squeezes, shooting you a look of mild exasperation. "Watch this first, doll. I'll answer what I can after, okay?"

You let out a long, stilted breath, your arms tightening instinctively across your middle. "Yeah." You finally mutter. "Yeah, okay." Your skin feels warm, warm and heavy beneath his lightly digging fingers.

What the hell are you doing here? Honestly? Is this still about the money? No, it can't be. You lick your lips with an almost violent surge of desperation piercing through you. Your life is. . . so neat, so ridiculously clean. You buy groceries. You watch movies. You play your video games and read your books and keep to yourself, and nothing different ever happens to you. Ever.

You don't have any family. You don't really have any friends. Colleagues, sure, but no one that you can honestly talk to. No one that you actually spend any time with. But, you prefer it that way -don't you? It's. . . easier. It's safer.

Maybe, that's part of the problem? Could it be that simple, that glaringly obvious? Has your life reached a point of such miserable stagnation that you feel the need to latch on to the first opportunity for something new that presents itself? Not only the first opportunity, either. . . but the first _stupid_ and _reckless_ and utterly _insane_ opportunity for something new (and potentially dangerous) that presents itself?

Oh, and you know that you should walk right out through that security door if you want to keep your sanity, the fragile walls of your little isolated world, intact. You can already feel them crumbling as the fuzzy, black and white images begin to move across the screen. You can actually feel the foundation of your entire life sliding out from beneath your feet as Schmidt grips your shoulder. He keeps you from slipping through the cracks alongside the rest of your warping sense of reality as you see two figures walking down a shadowed hallway. . . with a third one waiting, watching them from behind.

Interference lines suddenly flicker through the picture, and you flinch when the third figure appears right in front of who must be Schmidt and one of the guards that he attempted to train. Schmidt shouts something, grabs hold of the other watchman, and they take off in the opposite direction as this horrible, screeching noise blares from the speakers.

You can't tear your eyes away from the scene.

Schmidt tries to lead his companion into one of the storage rooms, but the door he shoulders open. . . leads straight into another animatronic, this one clearly a grotesque mockery of Freddy Fazbear, illuminated by the glow of his flashlight. Your flesh lurches beneath your clothes when the doll moves, much too quickly for something made of faulty mechanical parts, and Schmidt is suddenly stumbling backwards. . .

Seconds later, the screen is interrupted with another burst of static, and a pair of hapless guards are glimpsed staggering out of the frame when the picture returns. It only lasts for a moment, though, before everything goes black and the tape pops out of the machine.

You turn to the night guard with absolutely nothing to say. His hand is still weighing comfortably on your shoulder, and he is gazing back at you with wary eyes and the collar of his shirt tugged to one side. Your stare drops, traces the expanse of pale skin broken by a jagged scar, about six inches in length and neatly stitched together.

"Holy shit." You rasp. That doll. . . it actually -?

He shrugs, dropping his hand to fix his shirt. "It's no big deal, but. . . yah know. Just in case you weren't convinced that I've been telling the truth." He takes the tape and puts it back into the closet, then closes up the locks and hooks the jangling keys through his belt loop.

"What? No, I believed you." You insist, feeling oddly cold without his steady presence beside you. "Why would you make any of this up?"

He shrugs again and returns to his desk. "I wouldn't, but I know how all of this sounds, believe me. How do yah think I got this position in the first place? Someone had to train me, too."

"Right, of course." You blink. You follow him without hesitation, your pinwheeling brain still attempting to process everything from that tape.

But you don't sit down -you can't. Your limbs are filled with aching, restless energy. Watery knees and wavering legs and your entire body flushed with an icy heat, as if you just sprinted up and down the hallway outside and back. It's a. . . confusing sensation, one that you aren't used to experiencing very often. Panic numbed with adrenaline and fiery sparks dancing through your lungs.

It's frightening, actually -and frighteningly addictive.

You try not to think about that part, just like you try not to think about Schmidt watching you with those cool, knifing eyes as you begin to pace the length of his office.

"Okay, so how long have you been working here?" You fire back, hoping that you don't sound as desperate as you feel to gain some. . . some flimsy measure of control over this fucked-up situation. "A few years, right?" You press. "You have to know this place inside and out, if the details in those blue prints are anything to go by."

He collapses down in his chair and folds his hands behind his head. You have no idea how he can look so calm, act as if nothing about this is as deranged as it really is. Is he truly that desensitized to the entire thing?

"Nope." He pops his lips obnoxiously over the _p_ and grins. "Only a month under my belt, doll. I think that's the longest that anyone has been here, though -if it makes yah feel better. The man who trained me was on the payroll for three weeks and two days."

You feel the blood still in your veins as you whip your head around. Your [color] eyes widen. "He wasn't -?"

"Nah. He's fine." Schmidt interrupts, waving a careless hand. "He just didn't want to stick around. Once he knew that I was okay on my own, he split."  
 

Wow. Just. . . wow. You run your hands over your hair and decide to start on a new topic, which leads into an incredibly surreal discussion about the animatronics: the new models as well as the older. . . homicidal ones. It lasts two hours and three pots of coffee -Schmidt has an entire shelf dedicated to his favorite types of brew behind his jackets in his locker.

  
He tells you everything he knows about the history of the restaurant, and you puzzle out loud to yourself about the hows and the whys of the dolls only activating at night, where they vanish to during the afternoon, what the hell their purpose even _is_ _._ Because, according to Schmidt, they just go after the security guards. Now, you don't know much about electronics, but couldn't have someone. . . programmed them or whatever, to behave this erratically, this violently? Someone who might have had an issue with the security of this place in the past?

"Dunno. I guess." Schmidt shrugs, as you guys pour over his open file folder, pages on the different animatronics scattered everywhere across his desk. "I don't usually stick around long enough to find out, yah know?" He downs his fourth energy shot of the hour, smacking cherry bright lips together before he tosses the bottle into the trash by the door.

You have your chin in one hand, squinting [color] eyes mostly on the papers. . . but certainly not missing the slight movement of his tongue darting out and licking absently at his bottom lip.

"Machines and computer chips aren't really my thing, anyways." He continues blandly. "I wouldn't know what to look for even if the damn things _have_ been tampered with."

"No. . . yeah, I mean." You shake your head and scrunch your expression, a subtle ache starting up behind your left temple. "I don't know if either of us would know where to start with something like that. Could there be a way to incapacitate them? Maybe, the timing. . ." You suddenly chomp down on your tongue and bolt upright, knocking your chair to the ground in the process.

"Shit! Oh, man. What time is it?" You start gathering your things, fixing your clothes, shrugging into your jacket as you attempt to read your watch. Your other job might be out of business soon, but it isn't yet! How could you have forgotten that you have a shift today?

Actually, how could you have forgotten that you shift starts in twenty minutes? Have you honestly spent the entire morning in this back room, talking about psychopathic animatronics with a very peculiar, and yet weirdly compelling, man?

Well. . . yeah. Apparently, you have.

"Some other pressing matter to attend to, I take it?" Schmidt watches you rush around with a distinctly amused glint in his expression. He rocks back in his rolling chair, as relaxed and impassive as ever.

You awkwardly bend down to fix your own chair, shooting him an apologetic grimace on the way. You're feeling. . . a little weird: kind of shaky and kind of sideways -maybe from all the caffeine? Your stomach turns and flips over when you reach for the heavy handle on the security door and skim across his strong, pale fingers instead.

"Yeah, um. I'm sorry. Really, I am." You trip thickly over your words, ears burning white hot beneath your hair as you jerk your arm away. "But I work down at the Plaza and if I don't leave right now, I won't make it there through the lunch hour traffic."

Besides,you are suddenly in desperate need for some fresh air and warm sunshine and. . . and fresh air. For any kind of a reminder that some part of the world still exists outside of this strange and shadowed room, frozen in the midst of time and space.

"Hmm. . ." Schmidt considers this, and then gives you what you are rapidly coming to think of as his trademark shrug. "Fair enough." He sounds almost teasing as he slides the locks open and lets you out into the hall.

You don't waste any time bolting into the unknown, blushing furiously

"Hey!" He shouts after you, sounding annoyed. "You're coming back, aren't yah, doll? [Name]!"

"Apparently! What time should I be here later?" You call over your shoulder, and glance just in time to see this full, toothy smile brightening his whole face to a ridiculous degree.

You try so hard not to grin back, a searing warmth jolting your system and sparking through your veins. God -you must be as crazy as he is.

"Half past eleven would be good! You still have more paperwork to fill out." Schmidt manages a vague wave in farewell, and then vanishes into his office without another word.  
 

Oh, boy. You have no idea what you just signed yourself up for. . . literally. But there is one thing to remember: today really wasn't so normal, after all. And that might have been a good thing.

**Author's Note:**

> I really have no idea what made me write this, but I hope a few people out there like it! I did add in a few of my own details as far as the game lore goes, so I made sure to tack this with an AU warning =D
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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